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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160867">like birds</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahk/pseuds/riahk'>riahk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Character Study, F/F, F/M, Pining, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:34:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,321</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29160867</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/riahk/pseuds/riahk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Hilda barely survives the empire's assault on Derdriu. Claude flees to claim his other birthright. Edelgard wins the war. Now, a year after the continent's unification, House Goneril is called to Enbarr; Hilda is finally made to face the new world her former enemy is building, and to determine her own place in it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dorothea Arnault &amp; Hilda Valentine Goneril, Edelgard von Hresvelg &amp; Claude von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Claude von Riegan, Hilda Valentine Goneril/Edelgard von Hresvelg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>29</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. i. two dreams</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hey folks! I am here with more Crimson Flower what-if scenarios, this time centering on Hilda, Claude and Edelgard! There will be spoilers for the ending of that route, in case that wasn't already obvious.</p><p>Two aspects of CF have always fascinated me: 1) that you cannot recruit Hilda, despite being able to do so on every other non-GD route. 2) you can spare Claude, making CF the only route where two lords who actively oppose each other can survive to the end of the game. There are so many implications and possibilities here!</p><p>This story is a Hilda-centric exploration of what happens when you choose the wrong side in a war... And survive. Expect a good amount of angst, angry and stubborn Hilda as she faces the aftermath of her choices and slowly discovers that actually, Edelgard isn't all that different from Claude. Expect a lot of imperfect situations that Hilda has to accept and navigate.</p><p>I've included ships (hildagard and hilclaude), and there are explicitly romantic undertones, but the focus of this story is not so much on romance as it is Hilda's mindset and how her feelings influence the decisions she makes. This is a character study first, and a love story second, and that love comes in many forms beyond the traditional.</p><p>Without further ado, I hope you enjoy this first installment!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>i. two dreams</em>
</p><p>The port of Derdriu is painted red.</p><p>A sea of carmine spills over the ground: colored by the blood of Adrestian and Alliance soldiers alike, by the crimson banners of the Imperial Army unfurled from the rafters as the city is occupied. It inevitably pools around the streets and the walls and stands in stark contrast to the shimmering green bay and pale blue sky cradling Leicester’s treasured aquatic capital. At the center of the fray, warriors cloaked in gold make their last stand against invaders plated in dark armor, a clash of spears and arrows and bolts of magical lightning that refuses to cease.</p><p>A short ways away from that raging storm, Hilda Valentine Goneril fights like she has never fought before. She swings the axe in her hand with a stunning force and skill, taking down enemy after enemy, but it is still not enough to slow the assault. Nonetheless Hilda persists, her muscles growing sore and her breath turning ragged, sensations she has deftly numbed herself to. Only one thought plays in her head on repeat, driving her ever forward: she cannot let him down.</p><p>In the distance a wyvern screeches, and Hilda wonders whether it’s Claude, whether the cry is one of defeat or defiance. She can barely afford the thought, so steadily are the men coming after her, but she tries to move toward the sound anyway. Her feet pull her towards the core of the chaos, eyes struggling to catch a glimpse of what lies beyond the immediate surroundings.</p><p>She hears a yell from one of her allies, a cross between panic and awe: “The Emperor is here! The Emperor is fighting!” They are words that understandably trigger a swell of shouts rippling across Hilda's battalion, a scramble of boots against stone trying to maintain order and hold their formation. Hilda scans the vicinity, currently free of threats, and elbows her way past the troops. Making a path for herself, she finds a vantage point to confirm the report from. Salty wind swirls her hair like a spool of rose thread around her face as she climbs above the crowd.</p><p>Clad in the same bright red as her empire's flag, Edelgard von Hresvelg advances with a terrifying determination across the battlefield, her horned crown and billowing cape cutting a daunting silhouette against the mayhem. She marches boldly, arrogantly, and with the elite guard at her side she has little reason to be wary. To her right and left are Hubert von Vestra and Ferdinand von Aegir; the shadow and the sun, the two jewels of the empire. Ebony and bloodstone, Hilda thinks, before shaking the distracting comparison away and returning her focus to Edelgard. To her former classmate and current enemy.</p><p>Hilda wants to yell, but the other woman is too far away to hear. She wants to see her violet eyes, to burn into them with her own vehement gaze, but Edelgard looks only forward. Anger boils Hilda’s blood, seeing the woman who so brazenly catapulted the continent into war, who steps through the seat of Leicester’s power like she already owns it. Like she has already won.</p><p>Victory has not been called yet, and it will not go to Adrestia. Not if Hilda can help it.</p><p>Having seen enough, she descends back into the herd, into the tangle of limbs and steel. Edelgard's presence induces a brief lull in the action, but as she moves further away and onward the hurricane stirs again. Hilda is jostled around, aggravated and uncontrolled; her teeth grind together as she tries to push through, attempting to keep Edelgard's diminishing form in her line of sight.</p><p>Imperial soldiers are breaking through their ranks again, and Hilda readjusts her grip on Freikugel's pulsing handle. The crest stone embedded into its lifelike head pulses as she defends against the flurry of attacks, red glow dulling quickly as the men — unworthy obstacles, really — fall with little fanfare. Goneril's relic has a mind of its own, and in this moment it is as bored by the legion as its wielder is. Only one target matters in this moment: Hilda sees her through cracks in the wall of armor, and the axe in her hands is drawn to its sibling weapon, hungry for a true fight. Hungry to end this war in one swing. For once, Hilda wants to do work.</p><p>But the Emperor has brought a surge of enemy troops with her, and even with her strength and determination Hilda is quickly growing overwhelmed. Her own allies are falling on all sides at an alarming rate, the dying heat of bodies shoving into her and throwing off her balance as she searches for that flash of ruby and gold. It's growing more and more difficult as crimson floods her field of vision. Something hits her head, something strikes her arms, Hilda screams in frustration and pain. Edelgard is fully out of sight now, and Hilda is so surrounded by flesh and steel that not even a glimpse at the clouded sky can salvage her sense of direction.</p><p>"I can't let him down," she moans, suffocating under the weight of limp soldiers, blood on her hands that may or may not be hers. Her eyelids begin to droop with fatigue, her voice rasping with exhaustion: "I can't let him down."</p><p>—</p><p>When next Hilda opens her eyes, she is in an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room. The aching and nausea from her dream — a too-true memory, really — does not carry over into the waking realm, save for a light grogginess. That, and Hilda's fingers running over the fabric of her night gown to trace the lines of scars remind her of the layers of truth in her night vision. She wriggles around in the soft silk sheets and rolls onto her back, gaze settling upon the intricate molding carved into the high ceiling.</p><p>The pillow beneath her head is soft, softer even than her own bed back at the Goneril estate; the blankets cling just the right amount, not too warm or cold. Hilda cannot stand how comfortable she feels in the royal palace. How well she and Holst have been treated ever since their arrival in Enbarr earlier that evening. The Empire is associated with nothing but defeat and indignation in Hilda's mind, and she does not need such exemplary hospitality ruining its dark image, nor does she appreciate such petty distractions trying (and succeeding!) to chase away her enmity.</p><p>She is certain, at least, that her close proximity to Emperor Edelgard — asleep somewhere else in this wing of the complex, though the exact whereabouts Hilda knows not — is what triggered her unsettling dream. In the first few moons after the Alliance’s defeat at Derdriu, that same scene had replayed in her sleep nearly every night. As her injuries healed and the war came to an official close (announced, anticlimactically, from a worn piece of parchment while Hilda lay in bed one spring morning), their frequency decreased, but that did not mean she had forgotten. Tonight is a clear indication of that.</p><p>Not that she needs a reminder of her negative opinion of Adrestia, which has not managed to change for the past year since Fhirdiad burned and a god was supposedly slain. Hilda has managed to avoid most of the political fallout, leaving those efforts to her father and brother as they've worked to maintain House Goneril's relevance in Edelgard's nascent system. Apparently her affordance of luxury has finally run out: according to Holst, her presence at the imperial capital was specifically requested. The reason for this is anyone’s guess.</p><p>Their audience with the Emperor is not for a while yet, as signaled by the dark of night still cloaking her window. Hilda can wonder about it later, once dawn breaks over the city. She settles back into sleep.</p><p>—</p><p>Another dream sneaks in before she meets the morning. It is only half memory this time: Hilda is in Derdriu again, but the streets are empty and Edelgard is nowhere to be found. Instead a commotion catches her attention from the piers, and she runs along the creaking wood, clutching her side and finding it bloody and stinging. Ships flying the Almyran flag still dominate the waters, though the fleet is retreating and half of it is already approaching the edge of the horizon.</p><p>One Almyran is still fighting, his ivory wyvern soaring through the air as he rains arrows down on the unoccupied docks. Hilda pauses, admiring the graceful loops the creature draws across the blue, the dignified stance of an archer pulling his bowstring taut while his body is illuminated by the sun. He is too far to hear her, probably, but logic is fading in this place already. “Claude,” she chokes out, her chest burning as she does so.</p><p>Her vision breaks down for a moment, flashes of red overtaking the scene as a gust twists itself around her body, eyes flinching shut. The cool breeze stings her ears and her temples, but when she looks again the once-far wyvern has landed right in front of her, spewing hot breath in her face. Its rider is already dismounted and standing tall as the wind dies down, kissing the dark brown curls that settle around his well-formed cheeks. Claude’s green eyes are close enough for Hilda to see herself reflected in them, his smile soft and understanding. But he does not answer her.</p><p>“Hey,” Hilda tries again, waving a dirtied hand at him, the act of speaking still causing her pain. Her legs are wobbling like she’s at sea, and when her lungs expand it is impossibly laborious, as though fighting against a crushing force. “Claude, say something,” she whines, taking a step forward that doesn’t actually bring her any closer to the man.</p><p>He shakes his head, shrugs, lips still sealed shut and curled slightly upward. Kind, gentle, in direct contrast to what he is about to do. It’s a dream, and Hilda should be able to change it, to make it work for her, but Claude does not abide by her pleading. Certainly not when she calls his name again, her voice gargling and mangled. As he turns around more bubbles of red invade the edges of her vision, obscuring him. “Don’t leave,” she begs, feeling her mouth fill up with salty fluid; the ocean, or maybe blood. Probably blood.</p><p>Claude is in the saddle again, so high above her already, even while his mount’s feet remain planted on the wood. His gaze turns to the ships, to the east, to a place Hilda cannot go. To a place Claude has told her countless stories about, on nights when neither of them could sleep and the affairs of Fódlan were too stressful to discuss.</p><p>It took two years of war before Claude admitted his heritage to her, though she’d had her suspicions well before. And it wasn’t until a week before Derdriu’s last stand that he revealed the full extent of his birthright. A truth Hilda barely had time to process, with everything that was going on and what happened shortly after. What she is about to watch happen once more, in spite of her best efforts.</p><p>His name leaves her lips one last time as her lungs fill up with water, drowning in open air. Claude’s wyvern flaps its wings and ascends, kicking up another localized storm; this time Hilda keeps her eyes open defiantly, tears budding at the edges as she clutches her throat and her side and pain floods her entire body. She cannot speak now, only watch as Claude moves higher and higher, further and further away. He takes off after his fleet, leaving Fódlan behind.</p><p>And then there is only Hilda, injured and grounded and abandoned. As she gasps for air the port turns dark and scarlet, the sea and sky setting fire around her.</p><p>This time her awakening is restless, breathless, her torso catapulting upward as jarring sunbeams cuts in through wide glass panes. It takes a moment to realize her chest is still working up and down, quick and shallow huffs that eventually slow along with the pounding of her heart. “Goddess,” Hilda sighs, palm on her sternum, confirming that her body is not experiencing any inexplicable pains.</p><p>Sorrow clings to her, dissipating steadily as her eyes adjust to the room and the burgeoning daylight and reality. It fades and weakens until it is only a mild annoyance, irritation that she has to begin her morning like this. In this place that, for all its comforts, is a stark reminder of what she has lost.</p><p>There is a pounding on the door, loud and obnoxious and very obviously Holst. His voice follows immediately after, in case there was any doubt. “Hilda,” he sings, as unreasonably chipper as always, breaking her entirely free from whatever remaining grip the dream still had on her. “Breakfast time! You awake? Or do I need to come in there and—”</p><p>“I’m up!” she yells, digging her fingers into the covers pooled at her waist. “Give me a moment,” she says, eyes darting around the room. Her brother gives an affirmative grunt and leaves her in silence, back to facing her daunting schedule. Hilda takes a deep breath, knowing that it's barely ample preparation for what she'll have to deal with beyond breakfast. Still, some things are unavoidable.</p><p>The day is bound to be one filled with inevitable inconveniences. It's time to get them over with.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. ii. letters</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Before their audience with the emperor, Hilda re-reads a collection of letters from an old friend.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>ii. letters</em>
</p><p>As Hilda dresses, she takes time to examine the layout of her quarters, easier to discern in the daylight hours. From her unmade bed to the window there stretches a red and black rug, soft between her toes but frustrating to look at. Are all the guest rooms furnished in imperial colors, or is this merely her misfortune taunting her? She'll have to ask Holst about the decor in his chambers later, though she doubts he's paid as close attention as her.</p><p>Like in her unsettling dreams, scarlet and crimson continue to haunt her: they possess the cloth draped over the dark wood of the coffee table, the upholstery of the sofa and the armchair in the corner that's nestled up against matching curtains. Even the elegantly carved desk has glossy red ceramic decorating its drawer handles. "This is ridiculous," she mutters, stepping in front of the full-length mirror and brushing a finger through her bangs. Her eyes are tired from the journey here, but she notes that the aches and pains she's grown used to from inns are not taking hold of her joints this morning. Reluctant appreciation tugs at her lips as she works the laces on her skirt.</p><p>She sways in front of the polished glass, approving her reflection before moving to sift through the open trunk sitting at the foot of the bed, determined to accessorize. Her eyes scan over the neatly folded clothes and settle on a large carved box that she lifts delicately and deposits on the bed. In its wake is another item that catches her attention: a leather-bound folder, its cover embroidered with a meticulously needled anemone. "Oh, I forgot about you," Hilda hums, picking the thin portfolio up delicately and admiring her handiwork. She opens it slowly, breathing in the scent of leather and parchment, a collection of loose pages and faded ink greeting her. All letters from Claude, packed in the event of needing a pick-me-up. Which she definitely does. She leafs through the sheets, eyes falling on a random correspondence:</p><p>
  <em>25th of the Blue Sea Moon, 1186</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Hey there Hilda,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Thank you so much for the birthday wishes! Don't worry, your gift made it here on time. I love it — I'm wearing it now! It's gotten some weird looks, but let's just say not everybody here has the same impeccable taste as us trendsetters. (Though it should please you to know my mother adores it, and she asked me to send her best wishes to House Goneril. I think she's secretly trying to sweet-talk her way into her own Hilda original.) A deer was an excellent choice; it reminds me of what I miss most about Fódlan.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I'll tell you what I don't miss, though: the food. We had an appropriately lavish feast for my special day, and I got to enjoy dishes I hadn't tasted in what must have been six years. Six years! Wow. Anyway, I'm sending you some spices and a couple recipes, though I'm assuming that's more a gift for your cooking staff than for you. Still: saffron and sumac. Try 'em.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As for exciting updates on current court happenings: nothing major has happened since last I wrote, but—</em>
</p><p>Another loud knock on the door interrupts her trance and turns her widening smile into a scowl. Hilda closes the folder with a soft thud, tosses it onto the bed and inhales deeply, priming her little-sister voice. "Thirty seconds!" she calls, hastily picking out a pair of earrings from her jewelry box and slipping into the tall leather casing of her boots. After one last round of preening, she approves the outfit and steps toward the door. She takes one last look at the collection of letters and takes pause, her body relaxing again when she thinks of Claude. If today isn’t a good day to be reminded of at least one good person in the world, she’s not sure when it is.</p><p>She scoops it up, tucking it affectionately under her arm as she leaves the room. Holst is leaning against the wall dressed in a perfectly tailored coat, his normally unruly pink hair combed and a bright smile on his face ready to represent House Goneril. “Did you sleep well?” he asks, leading her down the hall where an attendant is waiting to guide them through the labyrinthine corridors.</p><p>“Yes,” Hilda replies, already dismissing the disruption of her dreams.</p><p>“I’ll have to ask who supplies their linens,” Holst muses as they turn another corner, approaching a stairway. “Though considering where we are, I’m not sure if we could afford such quality luxuries.” Hilda shrugs; Goneril is an affluent region, always has been, even with most of its budget going to fortifying the border. But whether the new unified Fódlan will allow for such consolidation of wealth has yet to be seen, and as such they’ve been keeping a much closer eye on funds ever since the war’s end. Perhaps the relative quiet from the Almyrans has been their family’s financial saving grace. Hilda unconsciously squeezes the folder in her arms closer.</p><p>“With such a sharp outfit, maybe you can charm your way into receiving a set as a gift,” Hilda suggests, eyeing the perfectly plaited folds of her brother’s cravat. He is much more comfortable in armor, and they both know it, but Holst is doing his best to play the part of diplomat. Could it be that he is just as nervous about this meeting as she is? Apprehension is not a look he often wears. “I like the brooch,” she adds.</p><p>Holst follows her gaze to the gilded accessory pinned to his jacket, metal meticulously molded into the shape of their shared crest, a garnet embedded at its center. “I should hope so,” he says. “You’re the one who made it.”</p><p>“I know,” Hilda replies with a smirk.</p><p>They arrive finally in a dining room, upholstered surprisingly in lavender; Hilda gratefully takes a seat and waits to see if anyone else is joining for the meal. But only two plates are brought out, and Holst is quickly engrossed in the heaping array of meats and pastries as one of the staff pours piping hot tea poured daintily into expensive porcelain cups. Hilda takes a bite, wrinkles her nose; not because it is bad, but rather because it is incredibly good. When her brother proves too busy for breakfast conversation, Hilda places the leather portfolio on the tablecloth beside her dish and resumes her earlier reading. This time she starts at the beginning.</p><p>
  <em>31st of the Guardian Moon, 1185</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Hilda,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There's not much time so I'll keep this brief: I'm so sorry. I can only hope this letter finds you swiftly, to reassure you that I escaped Derdriu alive. And that you managed to join the retreat.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>We're in the mountains of Kupala now, one last outpost before officially crossing the border into Almyra tomorrow morning. The sun is setting as I write this, a great burning eye sinking slowly into the soft curve of the horizon, my last glimpse of Fódlan for who knows how long. That same sun rose this morning on the Alliance, but now… well, you already know this. You'll know much better than me, soon enough. I almost can't believe it. I can barely believe I'm alive — and you know survival is always my top priority, so that's saying something.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It was the Professor who let me go. Edelgard didn't object. Maybe that mercy is an indication there's hope for Fódlan, yet. I can at least put my faith in that.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>You were great out there, Hilda. Too great, almost, so you'd better respond as soon as possible to let me know you made it out. I've already asked so much of you, and you've really given it your all, so that's the only request I have right now.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Actually, there's still one more thing. Please, whatever you do, don't stop being you. No matter how much the world is about to change. When next we meet — and that is a when, so keep your chin up — I'll be looking out for that smile, and seeking the company of the woman who stayed by my side through everything. You, and the rest of the Deer, deserve my eternal gratitude. And a break. For the love of all that is holy, take a break. You've earned it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sincerely Awaiting Your Reply,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Claude</em>
</p><p>His scrawled, messy handwriting betrays the haste with which the message must have been written. The paper is faded, worn and wrinkled, delivered while Hilda had laid half-dead in a medic tent outside Derdriu and then kept safe in her pockets for the entirety of their march home. Faded dark spots pepper the edge. Dried blood. The scarred muscle wrapping her side aches, and so does her chest, but she turns the short, rushed letter over and moves on to the next, taking a sip of tea as she does.</p><p>
  <em>20th of the Pegasus Moon, 1185</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Dearest Hilda,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Words cannot describe how elated I am to know you're alive. I suspect you're back in Goneril territory now, nursing that injury. Here's wishing you a swift recovery so you can get back to… well, actually, you don't have much use for training now, do you? I suppose that's one positive thought to keep in mind.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I hear the Alliance cooperated swimmingly with the Empire — Lorenz keeps me updated. He's drowning in paperwork and negotiations, which I understand is practically paradise for him, however bizarre it sounds. At least he's following his bliss. I hope you have the opportunity to do so, too. Not that there's any urgent need at the moment, considering you're still bed-ridden and it's barely been three weeks since the armistice. What drives you, now? After all this time we've spent fighting, planning, and holding Leicester shakily together, it's difficult to imagine what's next. Let me know what's on your mind, no matter how small. I want to hear it.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As for me: it's all so fresh and strange. There are mornings I wake up thinking I'm still in Riegan manor, late for a council meeting or military drills. Then I spy the distinctive skyline of Almyra's capital through the pointed, arching scope of my window. I follow a distinct, fruity scent to find the ivory blooms of star jasmine that curl in elegant vines along the palace walls, and step out of my room to the earthy pine and expensive incense that permeates the halls. It's surreal, comforting, dreamlike; after all, I spent years only seeing these places in my sleep, foggy fragments of memory stitched together by a longing for home.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And once it occurs to me that this is real, too vivid to be anything less, I hear my mother's voice. Calling my name, dragging me out of bed for a conversation (more like an interrogation, sometimes) and a stroll through her famous gardens. I cried when I first saw her again. Not only because I've missed her for so long, but because she reminds me that Fódlan is not lost to me, yet. Much like how Almyra always sat in the back of my mind while I paced the stone paths of Garreg Mach, Fódlan has taken up permanent residency in my thoughts. My goal — you know the one, we discussed it so many times — lives on with me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Of course, it continues to be postponed until the war ends, and likely for a while longer after that. King Dimitri is putting up quite a fight, or so I hear — though in the chaos at Derdriu, I think I spied several of his former Blue Lions fighting under the banner of Adrestia. An interesting observation, that. A different story for a different day. Maybe you can tell me about it once the fighting is finally over. I imagine that day will arrive soon; with Leicester unified again with the Empire, the scales are tipped heavily in favor of our former enemy.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that's exactly what Adrestia is, Hilda: a former enemy. Considering the ferocity with which you defended the Alliance, I suspect it's difficult for you to accept them so readily. It's difficult for me, too, and I would certainly be struggling with it more were I not so far removed from it all now. In these times, it can feel like taking any step forward is impossible, that our feet are laden down by the weight of defeat; I urge you to see these circumstances not as a failure but rather an opportunity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Nader — you remember him, right? Big guy, great fighter, hit it off great with Holst — said something interesting to me, right before the battle at Derdriu. That our kind may not always win, but we never lose. He was speaking of Almyrans, but I see no reason why it can't apply to the remnants of the Alliance. To you. Keep that sentiment in mind for the future, Hilda. As always, I'm rooting for you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Yours Truly,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Khalid</em>
</p><p>Hilda's mouth squirms with uncertainty over what to feel. Claude — Khalid, she whispers to herself, admiring the graceful loops with which he signs his true name — had surprised her with his tenacity, with how unfazed he was by the Alliance’s collapse. It almost felt like he’d never had any faith. The musing invades Hilda’s thoughts again just as it did when she first read this particular letter, and she chases it away with the same guilt that plagued her then. How could she ever doubt Claude?</p><p>
  <em>15th of the Lone Moon, 1185</em>
  <br/>
  <em>To the Illustrious, Most Elegant Hilda Valentine Goneril,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Do you appreciate my flowery titles? Recent dealings have necessitated a need for sophisticated language, and I thought I’d give you a sample of the flattery I’ve been forced to resort to as of late. More on that in a moment.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>First, my condolences to hear that Lord Holst has fallen ill. For such a strong, unflappable man, he has quite the proclivity for strange ailments, doesn’t he? I doubt he’ll be out of commission for too long, though it sounds like he’s already missed one chance to show his might at the border. Once I begin my efforts in earnest, those opportunities will hopefully diminish — in which case, you may need to urge your brother to pick up some new hobbies.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Speaking of pastimes, I’m glad to hear you’re back to creating jewelry. With all the current upheaval, it's important to invest in one's passions, and yours is certainly one that will flourish in the approaching times of peace. No pressure, but I'd love to see your handiwork if you get the chance. I have access to a sizable well of funds at the moment, so perhaps I could commission a piece from you? Again — no pressure. But it would be nice to have a trinket to remind me of you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now, as requested: an insider's guide to the inner workings of the Almyran court! I've been unceremoniously thrown and entangled in the chaotic microcosm that is palace politics for barely a month, and already my head is swimming with names and titles and… let’s just call them ‘personalities’. If you thought Alliance round-tables were complicated (and to be honest, I must thank Lorenz and his father a bit for granting me some extra practice with intrigue), you’re in for it now. My father (you know, the king) has no shortage of advisers, politicians, and social climbers all vying for his favor, so I’ll try not to bore you too much with a full roster of names.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>As you already know, Almyra is a society of warriors that celebrates strength and valor in battle above all else. There is no shortage, then, of that combative spirit in the court, whether through words or through actual clashing of blades. Just the other day, a discussion of the upcoming crop season was brought to an abrupt halt when one of my father’s more boisterous generals sparked an argument with one of my half-brothers. Next thing I knew, the room drained into the courtyard and a massive crowd gathered as the two men drew their swords. Needless to say that very little got done after that! What a military officer was even doing in a meeting on farming practices is beyond me. Such interruptions happen more often than I’d like, though I must guiltily admit to finding them entertaining. There’s never a dull afternoon here, with men and women alike pouncing at the opportunity to stand out and establish themselves as prominent figures in the court.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Such enthusiasm does not end at shows of fighting prowess. Fashion, art and poetry are all equally important outlets for making one’s mark. You would love it, Hilda: the dresses, the scarves, the jewelry… the hair! I think I showed you some basic Almyran braiding techniques once, but the ladies here are on a whole other level. My mother is excellent at keeping up with the latest styles, and has attempted to teach me, though I was upset to find my dexterity with a bow is not quite transferable to weaving plaits. If you were here, Hilda, I’m sure you would pick them up in no time.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>In fact, you would absolutely love it here, honestly. Keeping up with the colorful gossip alone would hold your attention for hours (you could certainly follow it better than I can), and your proclivity towards accessorizing would make you quite the popular little artisan. It would also be nice for me to have someone else I can confidently trust beside my mother. Someone to keep me grounded (or the opposite, which tends to happen with you, doesn’t it?) as I strive to push through all the frivolities and enact some real change. What can I say? I miss you, Hilda. I really do.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>It shouldn't surprise you that I am, generally, at my happiest outside the confines of the palace. Aside from lengthy discussions of philosophy with my father (who was delighted to welcome me back, and is my second-greatest ally in my quest) or late nights weaving tales by the hearth with my mother (you guessed it, my truest and most fervent supporter), the thrill of the outdoors is what calls me. I've taken my horse on many a long ride since returning, and flown my wyvern through the eastern skies; I try to see the sun rise and set from the saddle whenever I can. And despite all the fighting we only recently escaped from, I still love keeping my archery skills sharp.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Unfortunately, because of how long I've been abroad, I can't afford to take much time away from court. It's absolutely vital that I make a mark here, that I assert my presence, and especially in these next few months I must make a strong impression on both the courtiers and the common people. But once I make sufficient progress (perhaps by late summer), I hope to find time for another journey. Almyra is vast, lush and varied and ready to be explored, and if I'm to rule it I must make up for lost time. After that… Fódlan may be next on my list. It will be interesting to see it without the weight of noble obligations, unburdened by the sweeping uncertainty of war.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Until the day when these borders between us no longer stand, we will simply have to paint the most vibrant pictures of our lives through these letters. Please keep writing.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sincerely,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Khalid</em>
</p><p>
  <em>P.S. Since you noticed last time: yes, it is strange to have everyone calling me by my real name again. It’s nice, too, but will require some getting used to… that’s weird, isn’t it? I mean, it’s my name! I’ve had it my whole life! But I do still have a soft spot for Claude. Feel free to invoke the alias if you want to relive a piece of the old days — I don’t mind. No matter what you call me, Hilda, I will always be happy to hear from you.</em>
</p><p>Part of Hilda wants to take a pen and underline all her favorite parts: <em>A trinket to remind me; If you were here; I miss you, Hilda.</em> She knows him, knows that however casual the words sound, they signify immense affection by Claude standards. Another piece of her blanches at the thought of altering any part of the letter, of making it any less a true cross-section of Claude from this specific moment in time. Her hands tremble and she remembers the food getting cold in front of her, reluctantly taking a slow bite as she feels the rough texture of the parchment between her fingers.</p><p>The date on the next correspondence makes her stomach drop.</p><p>
  <em>19th of the Harpstring Moon, 1186</em>
  <br/>
  <em>To Hilda, one of the strongest women I know:</em>
</p><p>
  <em>So. I’m sure you heard the news already. It took a while to reach us here, but it nonetheless did, and my immediate thought was that I must write to you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>For once, I don’t know what to say. It’s not for lack of thoughts, of which I have plenty, nor for lack of feeling. Hell, I strived for five years to prevent this very moment. I should be livid and heartbroken, and part of me is. Part of me already felt both of those emotions, and an infinitely long list of more, back when Derdriu fell to the empire. Defeat is still so recent that it should have been easy to tap into that well of disappointment all over again. But when my mother told me Fódlan’s war had officially ended — offhand, as if she’d heard it earlier and it slipped her mind — all I could muster was a quiet, bewildered ‘Oh’.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I feel guilty about it. My ability to fall back so easily onto detachment, I mean. With Fódlan so far away, it’s not beyond reason; but to go from scheming and working and being in the war — consumed by it — to nothing, all over the course of three short months? My entire childhood I had never once seen my second birthright, yet the prospect of Fódlan still haunted me more than it does now, even with all the new knowledge and friends I’ve since gained.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Sorry. Perhaps I put pen to paper too soon, and now you’re bearing witness to my raw disbelief as I try to process and draw closure. I think… there’s no one here in Almyra who I can talk to about this, not in the way I want. I already told you how little consequence this business poses to my mother. Hence why I’m telling you. You must find me ridiculous, or maybe resent me for how easily I can brush this off. Though the more I write, the more I realize this isn’t exactly what ‘brushing it off’ looks like.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>I’m going to take a moment to collect myself before I prattle on and waste all the good stationery.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Alright! So, I’m still upset. I’m still at a loss for words. Mostly, Hilda, I want to know: how are you taking it? Did you find out as casually as I did? How much is going to change, now, with the continent unified and Edelgard’s path to reform cleared? How much is going to stay the same?</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Clearly, I still have questions. While I’m not surprised by how swiftly Adrestia took down Faerghus and the Church, something about the entire situation strikes me as unresolved. There are too many pieces that don’t add up, a veritable tangle of loose threads blowing in the wind that continue to tantalize me from a thousand miles away. Those mysteries aside, I know well enough that the end of the war doesn’t mean an end to challenges. Armistice is only the first step in what will surely be a long road to an improved system. Knowing Edelgard, she likely sat down for a celebratory cup of tea, maybe took one night off from plotting her first decree as leader of a Unified Fódlan, and then went right back to work.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Apologies for rambling again. Let’s focus on you, Hilda. I asked you a while ago, but I’ll ask again: what drives you? I suppose crafting and healing was your answer, and I wonder if it still is now. Not that you need to have any more goals other than making yourself happy and keeping your hands busy. On a more logistical note, I am curious what House Goneril’s role will be moving forward. Fódlan’s Locket still requires manning for now, but that’s business for Holst. You, on the other hand… there’s so much you can do now, Hilda. The war is over. The war is over!</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Now is as good a time as any to do some real thinking about your life, where you want it to go and how you want it to be. You know, the decisions we were planning to make in our last few months at the academy, when the Alliance and the Kingdom still existed and Rhea wasn’t on a murderous campaign to end the Hresvelg line? Those plans may have been delayed, but they never went away. And the world is looking a lot different now, so they may require revisions.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>If it helps, I still think you’d be an excellent addition to Almyran palace life. The courtesans would eat up both your bubbly personality and your creative designs; you could easily climb your way to being the third or fourth most popular figure here! Though to be safe, you may have to wait until I become king. The journey here would also be a lot of effort. Use your best judgment, I suppose. Or not. Life is always more exciting with a healthy air of mystery.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Whatever you do, don’t be afraid to take your time. Everything feels like it’s moving so fast, I know, but there’s no rush on what’s best for you.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Remember: should you find yourself driven from your homeland, or you simply want a change of pace, you are always welcome wherever I happen to be. Thank you, as always, for continuing to be my friend. We’ll get through this.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Until Next Time,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Khalid</em>
</p><p>This time, several statements <em>are</em> underlined by the author, most notably the remark about the war being over. Hilda stares at the words, so permanent and so momentous that Claude felt the need to write them twice. For him, a mountain range and more away, putting pen to paper was the most he could do to make the situation real. She is almost angry, unfairly so, though it's more frustration with their circumstances than with Claude himself.</p><p>Mostly, Hilda misses him. Reading his words reignites her longing for patrols around camp, wyvern flights and late nights spent bearing their souls. Hilda possesses a vast knowledge of gems and stones, whether common or luxurious; but no rock, no matter how beautiful, can ever hold the same value for her as Claude's trust. It is a rare gift that shines through even in his letters to her. She may as well have sheets of gold resting in her hands right now.</p><p>There is another emotion wedged between the anger and the wanting, something akin to regret. Enabled by her dreams and Claude's letters, Hilda's mind slips back into the past and that regret nearly consumes her. At Derdriu she'd swung her axe devoid of it, devoid of any remaining reservations, because in that moment she'd had something truly noble to believe in. Then that fount of hope took off into the eastern skies, leaving only paper and pretty words in his wake, and Hilda has been in limbo ever since.</p><p>Claude's offer of a position in the Almyran court stares back at her. Whether or not the suggestion was made in jest, Hilda remembers seriously considering it. Even before their battles ended she'd thought of escape, enamored with the idea of leaving war-torn Fódlan behind. But it has been a year since then — Hilda's eyes widen at the realization — and she's still here.</p><p>Why is she still here?</p><p>She could have packed up and left for Almyra — Claude's status be damned — ages ago, and what was stopping her?</p><p>Many things, and nothing at all. Paralysis; clipped wings as she attempts flight; weights tied to her feet as she tries to swim. No matter how she puts it, Hilda is stuck.</p><p>The dining room comes back into focus around her as her hands rest on the stack. Holst is nearly done with his food, his attention drifting more towards Hilda and her barely-touched meal. She slides the folder away and takes another bite, more to avoid her brother's concern than to sate her own hunger. The record of correspondence teases her from the corner of her vision; there are still plenty of messages left to re-read. Claude has been so consistent in writing to her, and Hilda is grateful for that, but it's a woeful substitution for actually seeing him. For all the joy his letters bring, they reflect a distance that haunts her.</p><p>Her hands tremble as she brings breakfast to her lips, holding tight to the perfectly polished silver in her hands. "We'll need to head for the audience chamber soon, Hil," Holst says from across the table. As if on cue, a uniformed attendant appears in the doorway, jolting black and red against the relaxing purple. Multiple reminders of where she is and why. Hilda grabs an apple resting on her plate as she rises from her seat, closing the folder protectively. "Is she ready for us?" she hears Holst asking, only half paying attention to the resulting chatter even as she comes to a halt at her brother's side. His hand rests gently on her shoulder.</p><p>From where they stand Hilda can see the doorway and the corridor, a long walkway dressed in the Adrestian colors. She tries to temper her fury as she thinks of what and who lies beyond that passage, contemplating an uncertain and unwritten future. With a nudge and a quick exchange of words they head out in the direction of the audience chamber, a silent anticipation melting away all but the ordeal immediately in front of them.</p><p>Edelgard is the only person on her mind now, and the hostility swirling in Hilda's stomach threatens to boil over.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Hello, thank you for reading! I really enjoyed writing as Claude/Khalid in this installment, and I hope I got his voice down. Now that this chapter has gotten some background out of the way, we're heading into the main event. Next time, 'show your teeth' — Hilda and Edelgard are ready to clash!</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading! And if you're here at the time of publishing, Happy Birthday Hilda!!</p><p>I am going to try to update this story weekly. In the meantime, stay tuned for chapter two, 'letters', in which we'll get a bit more context of what Hilda and Claude got up to between their loss at Derdriu and now...</p></blockquote></div></div>
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